


In Which Peter Channels Edward Cullen

by Lilia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Christmas Presents, Creeper Peter Hale, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilia/pseuds/Lilia
Summary: T’was the night before X-mas, and Stiles was nestled snug in his bed, visions of curly fries dancing in his head, when he wakes to find a certain creeper wolf sitting at his desk. Staring at him.  While he sleeps.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Major-Steter (Dokt0rGunn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dokt0rGunn/gifts).



> A Steter Secret Santa gift for Major-Steter. Happy Holidays! And many thanks to the organizers. 
> 
> Wow, I actually wrote something that is not omega verse--never thought I could.

T’was the night before X-mas and all that. Stiles dug it: he and his dad had done the whole _hang the stockings with care_ business until his dad got called out for a non-Santa-related home invasion. So he’d settled his brain with a few hours of WoW, before hitting the hay for his long winter’s nap.

So there he was, nestled snug in his bed, visions of curly fries dancing in his head, when _something_ woke him up. Definitely not clatter from eight tiny reindeer, not his dad, not even a mouse. Just dead silence, total dark, and the unshakeable conviction that he was not alone. His stomach clenched and sweat beaded on his top lip. If he were a werewolf, he’d probably be marveling at the maddened thump of his own heartbeat.

Before he could slip all the way over into a panic attack, two glowing blue orbs threw a small light into the room.

“Fucking A!” He sat up and fumbled with his bedside lamp, almost knocking it over. Peter Hale was sitting in his desk chair. “Fucking A!” he shouted again, as if the language center of his brain was caught in a feedback loop.

“Merry Christmas, angel,” he said.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You’re like this creepy Secret Santa. Could you act less like a fucking psycho?”

Peter tilted his head to the side, seriously considering his answer, and then finally said, “No.”

“Ugh, what is wrong with you?”

“Wrong? Should I make you a list, sweetheart? That would make for quite a lengthy conversation for three in the morning.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he muttered, already exhausted by the impossibility of reasoning with Peter.

The problems had started a couple months ago, when a certain broody Alpha had informed him that Beacon Hills’ favorite zombie-wolf had somehow made _Stiles_ his anchor. In the midst of all the shuffling and staring at his shoes, Derek had apologized for this shitshow but then haltingly noted that on the _plus side_ , Stiles was now the only person in the pack Peter definitely wouldn’t kill, _so hooray_? And then with Peter standing there smirking a whole four feet away, their fearless leader had mumbled an offer to kill his last surviving family member that he’d already killed once.

Welcome to life with Alpha Derek Hale.

Stiles had politely declined of course, squawking, _“Dude, what the fuck!”_

Because seriously—the Hale family.

Two weeks had gone by and he’d not seen or heard from Peter once, so Stiles had started to relax, convincing himself that this anchor stuff really wasn’t a big deal. Until the night of Halloween, when he’d woken in the dead of night to find Peter sitting at his desk, just…staring… at him.

Stiles had practically pissed himself from terror. (Well, technically speaking it had been a fear-boner, but same principle.)

From then on, the visits had become a regular thing, happening about twice a week. The creepiest part was that he only knew about those times when he’d actually woken up. For all he knew, Peter was doing the Edward Cullen business every night, while Stiles just slept through it.

Stiles was too freaked out to ask Peter the truth because what if he said yes? Stiles would never sleep right again.

In the meantime, Peter was currently sitting at his desk, eyebrows raised like he was waiting for something. Which, just no. _All the no_. It was freakin’ Christmas Eve. He and his dad had put out milk and cookies and even counted out eight carrots, one for each reindeer, just like they did every year. Getting into it on Christmas with Peter Hale would mess with his head. Too much. Like, even more than usual. So not happening.

Of course that left the problem of explaining that to Peter, and bottom line: his record for talking his way out of shit with Peter Hale was currently 0 for 12.

“It’s Christmas eve, Peter,” he tried. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“No.”

“Were you having some control issue?”

“No, no control issues, not in the last three months. You make an excellent anchor.”

Of course he did. “Then why are you here?”

“I was bored.”

“And watching a person sleeping is somehow interesting?”

“Well, not just _any_ person.” Peter smiled lewdly.

“Oh My God. Please tell me you didn’t wank while I was sleeping!”

“I was too busy contemplating your nocturnal erections. Were you dreaming about me, pet?”

“One, I told you not to call me ‘pet,’ and two, No! I wasn’t.”

Peter smirked—the way he always did when he caught a hiccup in Stiles’ heartbeat.

“Jesus, fuck, Peter. We talked about the Edward Cullen stuff, and how it’s totally fucking creepy.”

“You talked, and I listened. I always listen to you, angel.”

This was why you didn’t try reasoning with Peter Hale. Stiles would have bet his Jeep that the werewolf was totally sincere. He pinched his brow. How do you explain to a thirty-something _adult_ , who was also scarily intelligent, that his use of “listen” in that sentence implied—what? Respect? Heed? Obey? Riiiiiiight.

“And anyway,” Peter added, “Most people seemed to find Edward Cullen sexy.” His smile turned a shade too knowing, exactly like he was daring Stiles to deny that he found the sparkly vampire sexy.

“You know that’s not the point, Peter.”

For some reason those words triggered him. Peter’s entire body tensed and eyes flashed blue. “Of course it’s the point,” he growled.

Fuck, now he was getting aggressive. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Peter…” he pleaded. This was bad. He’d even sprouted his claws.

“Tell me you’re not turned on, _pet_. Say it without lying and I’ll leave and promise to never again enter your room while you’re asleep.”

Stiles swallowed, knowing from hard experience that lying to Peter was about the biggest mistake as he could make. “Peter…” he said cautiously. “Peter, your claws are out….”

Peter’s nostrils flared and if anything his claws lengthened.

Stiles pondered for the thousandth time why the fates had cursed him with getting fear-boners whenever Peter acted terrifying. In fact, he was beginning to think that he was, like, a walking fear-boner—a fear-boner incarnate! Like the connection between fear and arousal was so hardwired in his brain, the two basically provided the contours to his entire personality.

“Yes, well the scent of your lust and precum flooding the room has that effect. Now are you going to say that the idea of me watching you asleep, of “wanking” even, does _not_ turn you on? Yes or no? Answer.”

“You know I can’t,” Stiles gasped—how the fuck had this flown so out of his control?

“That’s right, you can’t.” Moving with werewolf speed, Peter stood and ripped the covers off the bed. “Now shove down those shorts. I want to see you. Don’t worry, I won’t touch.”

Stiles shuddered as he obeyed.

Stiles Stilinski. Obeyed.

And really there was something profoundly wrong with the way those words seemed to go together whenever Peter was involved. Stiles would go so far as to say that since becoming Peter’s anchor, this bizarre tendency towards obedience had become the biggest problem of his life (at least when there were no Kanimas, geriatric hunters, psycho classmates, Alpha packs, assassins, darach, or evil unicorns (yes, they are a thing!) menacing him.)

“Very nice. Now fondle yourself—gently. No cumming.”

“Oh god,” he moaned, palming his dick.

Peter’s eyes were glowing that steady, innocence-murdering blue and his claws were _still_ out as his hands flexed almost in time with Stiles’ strokes.

“Good boy, now bend your knees and spread your legs more.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he gasped.

“Pet,” Peter warned, voice hard. “Spread your legs and bend your knees. I want to see you.”

It was like the words pulsed through Stiles’ body, jacking up his libido to eleven. Slowly, since he wasn’t going to _hop to it_ for Peter even if he was obeying, he pulled his knees up and let them fall open. “Happy now?” he croaked, hoping he sounded obnoxious instead of desperate.

It was a mistake—a big one.

“No, I am not happy,” Peter bit out. “I told you: I want to _see_. Let go your cock and grab your knees.” The command snapped out of Peter so sharply this time Stiles couldn’t obey fast enough. “More—slide down the bed so you can pull your knees up by your ears.”

Fucking A—did he look like a yoga instructor? It was ridiculously uncomfortable in addition to being humiliatingly exposed—so of course, his idiot cock was practically throbbing.

The werewolf pulled the chair closer so he could get a better view, and then just sat there…staring.

“Peter…”

“Quiet.”

The moment clearly called for a devastating come-back, so of course Stiles just lay there obediently silent. Obedient _and_ silent. _Stiles_. If that wasn’t a portent of the apocalypse then he didn’t know what was. Even thirty seconds of conscious non-talking were such a stretch of his abilities that he began shaking with the strain, as if the pressure of his unprecedented taciturnity was getting, like, channeled directly to his dick, which was hard enough to pound nails.

And then there was Peter Hale, who was just sitting there, sporting a bland smile like he was watching some vaguely entertaining 80s sitcom instead of staring at Stiles’ exposed junk while he was bent in half like a performer in the Cirque de Soleil.  

It went on for an impossibly long time. Minutes plural, during which Stiles resolved in succession to: plead, refuse, collapse, wank, tell Peter to fuck himself. Anything other than just lying there (obediently and silently) splayed out.

And then there was that insidious little voice that kept asking what Peter would do if Stiles defied him. Would he punish him in some painful, kinky way—like an over-the-knee spanking, like, with a hairbrush? Would he walk out? Would Peter force him?

No. Stiles was 99% sure that Peter wouldn’t force him, although that remaining 1% seemed to contain an entire multiverse of possibilities, all grade-A, spank-bank material for Stiles’ hypercharged fantasy life—which was seriously fucked up, rising into badwrong territory.

In his defense, it wasn’t like Peter _couldn’t_ force Stiles if he wanted. Physically he could overpower Stiles without batting an eye. After all, the werewolf could bench-press a car, and it also wasn’t like he had some moral scruple about it. Stiles already had harrowing personal experience with Peter’s willingness to use violence to force people to do his bidding.

But Stiles also knew that wasn’t why he was so fixated on it. If Peter forced him, none of this would be on him. Stiles knew there was something deeply fucked up about that. Like, just because he was ashamed for acting slutty and gross did not make this Peter’s fault, even if the guy was a creepy, terrifying lunatic.

And ultimately, the true mindfuck was that Peter didn’t have to force him: he didn’t even have to threaten him, because Stiles wasn’t going to say no. He _couldn’t_.

Why he couldn’t was a question for the ages—like he’d need someone at least at Yoda’s level to answer it.

Stiles couldn’t help wondering if Peter knew—guessed—about all the thoughts rampaging through his head. Peter was fiendishly good at sussing out people’s weaknesses and identifying pressure points to further his quest for world domination. On the other hand he was a total narcissist and only sporadically lucid. The dude clearly got off on the power play and mindfuckery, but that did not mean he had any interest in Stiles’ various existential crises.

Stiles tried to tell himself that he didn’t give a shit about the answer—that Peter’s motives didn’t ultimately matter, but he couldn’t help recognizing that he was lying here, obscenely splayed, obsessing over what Peter might be thinking.

In other words, he was a pathetic tool. And really, that thought should not be making his dick jerk in excitement.

“Are you going to behave now? Answer,” Peter said after what felt like an hour, though it was probably only a few minutes.

“Yes, yes please.”

“Well then I suppose you can have your Christmas gift.” The bastard made it sound like he was indulging a whining child. He tossed a small box, wrapped in expensive-looking gold and red wrapping paper onto the bed next to Stiles. “Keep your legs where they are.”

“Why do I have a feeling that I’m not going to like this gift,” Stiles said, shaking it.

“Were you hoping for an Apple-Cinnamon scented candle?” Peter asked mildly.

“Ugh, no, I hate those. And, dude, scented candles are the lamest: it’s what you get your least favorite co-worker when you get them for office Secret Santa.”

“Well, obviously. That’s what makes them the perfect gift. I got one for every member of the pack. Now go on. Open it. I haven’t got all night. ”

“You do have all night,” Stiles muttered, as he shredded the fancy-ass paper and opened the box.

To find a vibrating butt plug—colored in a very Christmasy shade of red.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“I’m not kidding, and you said you’d behave. Now grab the lube and put it in. Don’t worry, I already washed it.”  

“Peter…”

“I’m not going to ask again.”

Stiles groaned, only partly because his legs were seriously starting to hurt. He grabbed the lube that was conveniently still on his bedside table, and quickly worked himself open, something he couldn’t do nearly so efficiently six weeks ago.

He’d played with his hole for Peter before, but this was the first time he’d used a toy. It took a couple of tries, but he managed to slide it in. It felt weird: cool and hard compared to his fingers, but also smoother. It made him feel almost impossibly full even though it was small compared to some of the dildoes he’d seen guys take in his favorite pornos, not to mention fists, another unhealthy fixation of his, especially given that the closest thing he had to a partner sported actual claws.

“Very nice. Now turn it on.”

The second he hit the button, Stiles nearly leapt off the bed. The sensation was overwhelming. His brain couldn’t process it. He nearly shouted as his legs cramped. “Peter, Peter… I can’t, I can’t keep my legs, fuck.”

“You can put your feet back down, but keep your legs spread,” Peter said coolly. “Wider—I want to see.”

Stiles was able to obey, but otherwise he could barely take in what the werewolf was saying to him. He had no idea anything could feel like this. He’d never been this turned on in his life. “Holy shit, Peter, I can’t…”

“Beg me.”

Stiles didn’t hesitate. “Peter, I need to cum, now, please. Fuck!”

“I said _beg_ —and be polite.”

“Fine. Please, I’m begging you, please can I cum—I’m desperate. Please, Peter.”

Peter was doing that thing where he stared at his hand while he flexed his claws—god, he was a freak. “I suppose that will have to do,” he said, tone weary. “Go ahead.”

“Holy fuck!” Stiles gripped his cock, finally. He thought he’d shoot that second, but after a minute of frantic fapping, he was still frustrated. It was like he was too turned on to cum, which before today he’d have said was an oxymoron. “Aarrgh!” Was he crying now? God he was so pathetic. _Fuck_! Being this turned on was not supposed to suck.

“You could try squeezing your ass around the plug,” Peter suggested in the indifferent tone he might use to recommend adding a dash of nutmeg to a chicken soup recipe.

Stiles obeyed of course, and _Holy Shit_ that felt amazing! The sensation, aided by the humiliation inflicted by Peter’s annoyed tone, pretty much launched him into orbit. His vision whited out briefly as he shot his load.

As he came back down to earth, Peter was tapping his clawed fingers on Stiles’ desk like he was unimpressed, but his eyes were glowing so Stiles figured it was a front. It was such rank assholery of course it gave Stiles a fresh burst of libido, 17 seconds after a bone-melting orgasm, since apparently that was his kink.

But along with the plug, which was still dutifully vibrating, Stiles was moving rapidly towards painfully overstimulated territory. He almost reached to take it out, but it was bad enough that he figured he’d better not push his luck.

“That felt amazing, Peter,” he said, trying to sound meek. “Can I please take the plug out now?”

Peter smirked. “No ‘sir’? Be careful, pet. Now that I know you actually _can_ be polite when you want something, I have no reason to be so lenient with you.”

Stiles desperately wanted to tell Peter to fuck himself—it was like the words themselves wanted to burst out of his body like the creature from _Alien_. He also really, really wanted to know what Peter _not being lenient_ would entail. But exhaustion was catching up with him and with each second the sensation from the plug made him more raw and frantic. “Can we save that for next time, please? I can’t…. I really can’t take this. I need the plug out.”

“So you acknowledge there will be a next time?”

“Yes.”

“Orgasms really do bring out the best in you. Very well, go ahead. And then put the plug back in the box.”

Stiles obeyed and then was surprised when Peter held out his hand to take it. He put the box in his pocket and then headed towards the window.

“You’re taking it?” he said before he could stop himself.

“I don’t want you using it when I’m not here to watch.”

“I thought it was my Christmas gift!” he whined.

“I left a scented candle for you under the tree. Though not Apple-Cinnamon. I think yours was Balsam—or maybe Ocean Breeze? I forget.”

“Oh my god, you are such a weirdo.”

“Probably.” He smiled, a real one, warm and affectionate, as he threw up the sash. “Merry Christmas, Stiles.”

A second later he was gone. “And he drove out of sight,” Stiles murmured as he got up to shut the window. Back snug in his bed, he pulled up the covers and turned out the light, wondering if the werewolf was still close by. “Merry Christmas, Peter,” he said just in case.

And to all a good night.

 


End file.
